Cold
by Strife and Steel
Summary: This is the story of Cold Cole, An assasin with a shattered mind and mostly human soul


My name is Cold. I am an assassin for hire, and I can kill at will. I have no fear. I refuse to allow any such doubt dwell in my mind.

Cole sat up that night reciting this in his head. His job was to kill people he knew little or nothing about, and he had to do it silently. He had never thought this would be his line of work.

Cole was a young man just out of his teens. He wore his messy stark blue-grey over his right eye. His right eye was the source of his name "Cold". The eye was a striking arctic blue in comparison to his normal black eye in the left spot. He also had a blue mark underneath his left eye, where he got it, he did not know. His eyes never seemed to respond to emotion the way most would, giving him a demeanor of unfeeling coldness. His cloak he wore un tied so that it provided maximum movement and so his weapons were never far from reach. His wakizashi (the short oriental looking blade) always easily came to bear in his right hand as his shamshir (The curving blade) could slip out of it's curving sheath and knit itself into his other hand's grasp. The two weapons were normally slung around his belt, being concealed by his loose slacks and long cloak. He wore mesh clothes underneath all of this as a safety precaution.

Back to the matter at hand, Cole was repeating these words through his head, driving away all his doubts about what he must do. His job was to kill a mercenary commander. A man he had no problem with and would have probably found him to be a fair and just man. But, he had to do as he was told. He had been forced into the assassination business by things he could not remember, he just remembered he had been doing this, or he had been someplace which had seemed to cause his loss of memory. He found no sleep that night.

It was the day was ordered to carry out his orders, to attack when the time was right. Cold's demeanor outwardly seemed to be simply unexpressive, yet inside one couldn't tell the amount of chaos in his mind. He walked through the camp of mercenaries, where one couldn't tell that you weren't a sell sword from a traveler. Cole saw the leader's tent that he would have to slay that night. He saw the lance men who guarded the tent, and how many of the man's followers pitched tens near his.

Cold had unknowingly stopped and stared at the crowd of tents, and an older man, clearly a veteran by the scars on his face and arms, walked up to him.

"I see ye are stare'n at me boys' campsite" The old man chuckled.

Cole whirled around suppressing every instinct to draw his swords. He had seemed to have been surprised, but his eyes didn't show it. "I am sorry, who are you?" he asked sort of off balance from the shock.

"I'm the captain o' this band here. We have been through a lot ye know." He said, still chuckling like an old man would when speaking with young children. "I wouldn't think ye would happen to know our groups name, would ye?"

"No, I don't think I do" Cold lied, not wanting to alert the seasoned warrior of anything. He knew the name.

"We call ourselves the Merrowwinds Brigandine" He said without the chuckle this time. Cole could tell this man was indeed the band's captain. From the way he spoke the name Merrowwinds Brigandine, he was calm yet stern, showing great respect for the words. "We may be a mercenary company, but we have our honor"

For a mercenary, Cole found this man to be a fair person, but knew he had to kill him.

He waited till the dead of night. He approached the main tent, seeing know light within, suspected his target was asleep. Cold, also noted two spearmen guarding the old man's tent, and knew he would have to deal with them. Cole played the battle out in his mind. They were spearmen, he had the disadvantage range wise, but he could beat any them if he closed the gap. Cold was off in seconds, jumping in between the two lancers, his twin blades drawn, without a sound. In midair, he shifted his momentum while slashing to spin and strike both of the guards at once. Against a less skilled pair, that maneuver would have dropped them, but these two were definitely experts at what they did.

Cole's spinning attack had only stopped them from skewering him. He caught both their lances out of balance, and left them in a standstill. If he moved, he let them have their lances back, but if he gave them time to think, they would rouse the entire group. Cold snapped his blades around causing them to raise their lances so he could escape. As he leapt out of the way, he slammed his short blade into the side of one of the lancers. The wounded man was not able to withstand the force of the blow, and was knocked to the ground.

Cole had only one foe facing him now, and he had to finish him before he could shout to the other men.

"Ata…Ugh" the man shouted as Cold vaulted off his imbedded victim, pulling out his blade, and driving his curving shamshir through his defenses. The cry never finished leaving his lips before he was dead on the ground.


End file.
